


Forest fire

by dana_norram



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Artist Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Character Study, Domestic, Forehead Touching, Grocery Shopping, Historical References, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani drives, Light Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova is a Little Shit, Nostalgia, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:36:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27999120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dana_norram/pseuds/dana_norram
Summary: The woman at the cashier is in her forties and she rings Joe’s purchases with efficiency and care, making approving hums at his selection. He smiles as she holds up the bread, and he fishes his phone from inside his jacket. He is about to text Booker he’s on his way when something behind the counter catches his attention. Joe can’t help the heavy feeling that settles in his chest as he recognises the footage of Notre-Dame burning.It’s been five days since the fire, but no one knows the real extent of the damage yet. Joe’s hands tingle with the silly idea of getting into the car and driving straight toÎle de la Citéto offer his services and expertise to restore the building back to its former glory. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.Or: Joe goes grocery shopping for the safe house in Goussainville and takes a stroll down memory lane.My take on the Deleted Scene.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 69
Kudos: 412





	Forest fire

**Author's Note:**

> So everyone on Tumblr lost their collective marbles last Tuesday when Our Lord Greg Rucka talked about the notorious [deleted scene](https://wickedpact.tumblr.com/post/636959975665778688/), which turned to be all about Joe and Nicky. Though I am currently struggling with three other fics and a very demanding work project, I had this idea that wouldn’t leave me the fuck alone, so here we are.
> 
> This is for all the wonderful people at the top!Joe discord server who are enablers of the worst kind. And a very special thank you to [Aqua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sal_si_puedes/) and [Popi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solariz) for reading the final draft and giving me some life-saving feedback (and also correcting my many, many typos and grammar issues). I love you all.

They are out of couscous.

Joe sighs over the poor options provided by their local Carrefour as he heads towards the exit. He can’t help picturing Nicky back at the safehouse, large shoulders dropping in not-so-subtle disappointment once Joe arrives empty-handed. Nicky’s strong jaw would flex and he would blink a couple of times, trying to come up with an alternative menu on the spot. He would not be happy, of course, but he would try to make the best of the situation, as he always does.

Joe loves him for it and for everything else, really, and that’s why he drives around until he spots a local grocery store run by a Jewish family. The place is small and packed, but not only do they have a good brand of couscous, they also sell homemade hummus sprinkled with paprika and freshly baked bread. Joe selects an assortment of tomatoes, shallots, spring beans and red bell-peppers as he envisions a small smile on the corner of Nicky’s mouth while he cooks. Joe sighs, pleased. He has murdered people for less.

He can’t help chuckling as he remembers Andy’s earlier call about the newbie. After Booker had announced they would be arriving in Goussainville later that day, Nicky had run a quick assessment on the contents of the old church’s fridge and cabinets and he had stared back at him with genuine apprehension in his eyes.

“What if she’s vegan?” He had asked then holding a package of dried egg pasta and a piece of parmesan like he was personally betrayed by them. “Many people her age are, I have heard.”

Joe had put aside his sketchbook then, and walked over to the kitchen counter. He knew Nicky’s real concern had less to do with what the new girl would or wouldn’t eat, and more with everything that gone down in South Sudan. He also knew Nicky needed something he could control, something small, like dinner. So Joe had held his heart, resting his chin over his shoulder, and had pressed a quick kiss right over his beauty mark. He laughed when Nicky had rolled his eyes at him and begun listing what he needed for his Moroccan vegetable couscous.

Joe didn’t take any notes, he didn’t have to. Even if he didn’t know all of Nicky’s recipes by heart, he would never forget a single word he said.

The woman at the cashier is in her forties and she rings Joe’s purchases with efficiency and care, making approving hums at his selection. He smiles as she holds up the bread, and he fishes his phone from inside his jacket. He is about to text Booker he’s on his way when something behind the counter catches his attention. Joe can’t help the heavy feeling that settles in his chest as he recognises the footage of Notre-Dame burning.

It’s been five days since the fire, but no one knows the real extent of the damage yet. Joe’s hands tingle with the silly idea of getting into the car and driving straight to _Île de la Cité_ to offer his services and expertise to restore the building back to its former glory. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.

“It’s so sad,” the woman says when she notices his eyes on the TV. “There were people praying and singing outside the whole night. My daughter showed me the video on her phone.”

Joe doesn’t trust his words so he nods and tries to smile again, but soon realises he can’t. There’s a lump growing inside his throat and he thinks he might cry, feeling suddenly very grateful for the dark shades covering his eyes. He pays for the groceries with cash and walks out, and though there is nothing but stone and concrete around him, he’s certain he can smell wood burning until he finally enters the car and closes the door.

He secures the paper bag on the backseat and turns on the engine. He doesn’t drive off, though, not yet. He thinks about turning on the radio, but he doesn’t want to hear more inconclusive news about the fire.

It wouldn’t be his first time witnessing a heritage site crumbling down under the weight of time. Two years ago, he had sat and wept as he watched the news about _it-Tieqa tad-Dwejra_ collapsing in Malta. It is a side effect of being immortal, he knows. The world around you changes but you stay more or less the same, and you go on through time and dust, feeling the bits and pieces run through your fingers.

Joe lets out a deep breath and he feels grateful to know that at least soon he will be safe again in Nicky’s arms. He can’t help letting his mind wander as he drives, though, memories washing over him like waves.

In the middle of the nineteenth century Paris was a full-blown construction site, easy for them to blend in, and even so, it wouldn’t ever be their first choice of a place to lie low for months on end. Twenty years previous to that, once it had become obvious for everyone around Sébastien that he wasn’t aging as normal people should, they had convinced him to leave his family behind and travel with them to _do some good_ , as Nicolò had chimed in. Before they had left, though, Joe had set up a bank account and left a contact address with a friend of _Le Livre_ ’s family, should they ever want for anything. And he had debated with both Nicolò and Andromache on how to act after he got the letter with the news about Jean-Pierre’s condition.

At first, they were certain nothing good could come from that encounter, but what did they really know about having a family other than each other? After all, if Andromache had the opportunity of saying goodbye to Quỳnh, wouldn’t she jump at the chance in a heartbeat? In the end, they had decided to tell Sébastien that his youngest son was dying alone in a bed at _Hôtel-Dieu_ in Paris.

They had packed during the night and moved to a one-bedroom flat in one of the few streets in _Île de la Cité_ that was not being torn apart at the time. They had planned to stay in the city until the boy miraculously got better or most likely, passed way. Andromache didn’t stay for more than a couple of days after they had settled in. Whenever they were in Western Europe, she made her way back to the English Channel, and Joe wouldn’t ever think about stopping her. Instead, he would treasure the postcards they got from cities all along the coast and he would hug her tightly when she returned every other month to check up on them.

Sébastien had drank every day, trying to gather the courage to face his son or, as he did most of the time, just watch him withering from afar. He had filled the rest of his time by working odd shifts in a printing press at Rue Saint-Jacques, his forging days never very far behind. Nicolò had volunteered in an orphanage and got a place as an apprentice at _Hôtel-Dieu_ , where he could keep an eye on both Sébastien and Jean-Pierre and update his medical knowledge at the same time. Somehow, he still managed to find hours in the day to cook for the three of them.

Joe had been hired as part of Notre-Dame’s restoration team. The building had been in a terrible state following the Napoleonic Wars and it had came too close to being demolished until public opinion shifted the odds. And though Monsieur Viollet-le-Duc was doubtful of Joseph Al-Kaysani’s abilities when Joe first approached him, he soon became _please-call-me-Eugène_ , and almost tripped over his feet in a hurry to shake Joe’s hand as he demonstrated what he could do with a pencil and a chisel. Eugène also wept real tears of joy when Joe showed him his collection of fifteenth century drawings of the Notre-Dame’s façades, explaining how those were in his family for generations. It wasn’t even a lie.

Joe had thrived there, helping to patch up the Cathedral’s old hurts, elated with the idea he still would be around in decades to come to see it fully restored. He had enjoyed the hard work and he hadn’t minded the heights, always fascinated with Paris sprawling like an ever-growing web beneath his feet.

During the nights, the three of them would gather back in their flat to eat and drink and talk. Nicolò would urge Sébastien to read Victor Hugo’s novel out loud as he cooked or they would ask Joe about his day. And he would go to bed with Nicolò in his arms and every morning he would kiss him goodbye before he went to work, feeling almost happy.

He had explored every bit of the Cathedral, enjoying the freedom of being able to come and go as he pleased. His work was held in such a high regard they had let him set up his workshop in the attic, where no one would trip over his precious drawings and clay models or even interrupt him when he was deep into a new piece. Joe had loved up there, with the smell of old oak, paper, graphite and clay and he had often stayed working until he lost the light and more often than not, Nicolò had to come collect him so he would remember to eat and to rest.

In the first summer since they had arrived at Paris, Joe had became particularly busy as his team was tasked into crafting new faces for the twenty-eight statues of the Kings of Judah, mistakenly taken for French royalty and beheaded during the Revolution.

One of those busy days fell on very hot Friday and Joe was frustrated. He had been working for hours with the same clay base, modelled after a drawing approved by Eugène himself, but every attempt to give it a little life felt dull to his eyes and hands. He was about to give up for the day when he recognised Nicolò’s steady footsteps coming up the stairway.

He grabbed a rag to clean his hands as Nicolò emerged between the centuries old oak beams that supported the Cathedral’s massive lead roof. Each beam had once been a whole tree, and that’s why they called the attic the ‘Forest of Notre-Dame’. It always made Joe feel small and even young. That wooden structure was the only thing in that whole place, including the building itself, that was older than the two of them.

Nicolò’s face opened in a shy smile and Joe felt how his pale eyes wandered all over his naked chest, currently gleaming with sweat from his afternoon’s work. He smiled in return and was about to reach for his shirt so they could go home when Nicolò walked up to him, a gentle hand over his arm.

“No,” he said as he pressed their foreheads together. He looked fresh despite the heat outside, his hair a little damp and smelling like soap. “I brought something.”

Joe raised his eyebrows, noticing for the first time the basket Nicolò had with him. From the top of it, he pulled a blanket he laid down on the wooden floor. Inside the basket, there were a bottle of wine, some bread and cheese, but Nicolò didn’t touch those.

“Are we having a picnic, my heart?” he asked, but he didn’t move from the spot by his workstation. Instead, he watched Nicolò kick off his shoes and sit down on the blanket, beaming up at him.

“I thought we could spend the night here,” Nicolò said quietly. “Book is having a bad day. I believe he would appreciate the peace.”

Joe hesitated. He was feeling maybe a little too delirious because of the heat, so he dismissed his first instinct and waited. Nicolò looked up and licked his lips.

“I have missed you, my love,” he finally said, and Joe groaned under his breath.

He was kneeling between Nicolò’s legs in a second, only realising his hands were still dirty with clay when he noticed the dark smudges over Nicolò’s shirt. “I am sorry, my h-” he started, but Nicolò interrupted him with a kiss, arms around his neck. Joe moaned when he felt him hard. They hastily undressed each other, and Joe pressed a series of kisses over Nicolò’s collarbone.

They hadn’t done much during the past few months. Nothing but hands and mouths and, rarely, Joe’s cock trapped between Nicolò’s thighs. They were always too busy or too mindful of Sébastien’s odd hours and shifting moods.

It didn’t mean Joe hadn’t missed it, having Nicolò under him, his beautiful cock leaking over his stomach, thick thighs spread open. He cursed under his breath as he looked around for something to slick himself with and let out a shaky moan when Nicolò licked his own palm and reached out for Joe’s cock, wrapping his wet fingers around it. He was about to protest when he felt himself breaching Nicolò. It went too easily, too smoothly. Nicolò _had_ thought about it, he had worked himself open for him before coming up here.

“You-” Joe tried to speak between kisses, as he lost himself in the warmth of his heart’s willing body. “When, Nicolò-?”

He felt a shadow of a smirk against his mouth as Nicolò’s legs closed around his hips, urging him to move. Joe obliged him, raising his head just enough so he could see the look on Nicolò’s face, firm cheekbones splashed with pink, pale eyes touched with mischief.

He could easily picture it, mostly because he had seen it so many times before. Nicolò, fresh from a bath, one leg propped on a chair or against the wall, arm twisted and bent so he could reach behind his balls, pressing one, then two slicked fingers inside. Joe could scent the fragrant oil he had used on himself, and he pressed his nose against the crook of Nicolò’s neck and filled his lungs with the smell of his warm skin.

Shaking himself out of his memories, Joe switches gears as he takes a turn and drives into the inner patio. He feels grateful for the fact that he and Nicky have fucked against the shower wall just that morning, otherwise he probably would have to wait a couple of minutes before exiting the car. He is feeling just a little self-conscious as he gets out, but his instincts kick in as soon he breathes the crisp air outside. He checks the perimeter, glad for the dagger tucked inside his boot as he picks up the paper bag and looks up to a jet flying over, always a little too low for his liking.

Nicky opens the door a moment after he knocks, and all tension bleeds out of Joe’s body once they are both safe inside. Nicky’s eyes are bright when he turns to look at him and they move at the same time to press their foreheads together.

Joe lets out a heavy breath. He wants to take Nicky’s hand and lead him to their bed, and to hold him close for hours until all his fears are washed away, but he knows they don’t have the time for that now. Not with a new immortal on her way, nor with Copley breathing down their necks. Maybe later, he tells himself, as he hands Nicky the paper bag and watches as the corner of his mouth shift into a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments help to clear my skin and to water my crops. I love them all and I always reply to each and every single one, so many thanks to those who spare a moment to share their thoughts. :) I am [negotiumcrucis](http://negotiumcrucis.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, just in case you want to watch me reblog a massive amount of TOG content I did not make.
> 
> This here, though, is probably the most self-indulgent piece of writing I have done in ages. Notre-Dame is a place very special to me since I was a teenager and I went through a very dark mourning phase after the fire last year. Then two days ago, as I thought about the grocery shopping and head bonking deleted scene my traitorous brain went rampant and provided me with a single plot line: **“so, when was the last time Joe and Nicky fucked in a church?”** (because yeah, they have fucked in a church, _come on_ ).
> 
> It certainly didn’t help when I checked the dates and realised the Notre-Dame fire happened very close to the movie timeline, pretty much in the same week. The date “Sunday, April 21” is displayed on Nile’s phone in the morning after Joe and Nicky were kidnapped. The Notre-Dame fire happened on the previous Monday, April 15th. So now here I am, just chilling and headcanoning that Joe worked in the Notre-Dame’s restoration in the 1850s and during that time he designed a lot of statues with Nicky’s big Roman nose. And there’s probably a gargoyle or two that resembles Booker, 'cause bros gonna be like that.
> 
> And, in case you are curious about Notre-Dame’s attic, I suggest the following reading: [Notre-Dame Attic Was Known as 'the Forest.' And It Burned Like One](https://www.nytimes.com/2019/04/16/world/europe/why-notre-dame-fire-spread.html). :(


End file.
